


Faceless Crush

by synonomy



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Awkwardness, Facials, First Time, Inexperience, M/M, Public Sex, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-30
Updated: 2012-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-30 08:22:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synonomy/pseuds/synonomy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's this slouching ink-stained greaseball in the back corner of the art room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faceless Crush

He's this slouching ink-stained greaseball in the back corner of the art room. Frank sees him every day for the two straight weeks he has detention; by the third day he's forgotten what he did this time. It's just routine, like everything else.

For the first few days Frank trudges in at lunchtime, tripping over the trailing threads and denim at the bottom of his jeans and skidding his half-dilapidated book bag across the long row of tables at the front of the classroom. The supervising teacher never sticks around long after Frank starts to pretend to write his lines - trying out increasingly inventive variations of _I must not be disruptive_ to keep himself looking absorbed - until they're slinking off to the staff room for a sly cigarette under pretense of having _work to do_ and leaving the two of them alone.

 _I must not have fun, I must not speak my mind, I must not be myself, I must not question bullshit_ \-- it gets old pretty fast, especially since Frank's not even really angry about it anymore. Day five is when he finally breaks and can't pretend he's not paying more attention to the sporadic _skritch-skritch_ behind his ears any longer, and turns around to get a proper look.

The dude is seriously fucking weird, Frank can tell just from looking - wouldn't even have to bring into the consideration the fact he's actually here by _choice_ , in a classroom for his entire lunch hour every day without fail. He's practically the model of angsty teenage isolation, all black-covered and twitchy-fingered, long hair hiding his face where he's hunched over the wide slew of paper and various drawing implements, easy and cliché.

Frank's interested anyway, but he forgets about it over the weekend, until he jerks awake Monday morning hard and desperate and remembers, suddenly, as he's fucking his hand against the sheets: this vague, faceless, brooding image - white, slender fingers - and comes messy and juvenile inside his underwear.

Frank doesn't turn around that lunchtime, even though he's pretty sure the guy doesn't know he exists anyway. The _skritch-skritch_ has been replaced with _shh-shh_ , like watery brush strokes or the flat drag of the side of a piece of chalk, maybe graphite. Frank drops his chin in his hand and stares blankly out of the window for the hour, lets himself listen as his eyelids droop, mind wandering with the motions, trying to imagine the picture taking shape.

As the end of lunch bell sounds the teacher returns and starts making shooing motions at them. Frank takes his time shoving his shit back into his bag, watching the guy carefully sliding paper into a folder out of the corner of his eye, slotting utensils into their proper places in their little boxes. He's wearing a plain, stained hoodie with ripped, tattered cuffs, and when he straightens up and his hair falls away from his face there's a dark smudge on one high cheekbone.

Frank can't stop thinking about it the entire day. When he gets home he locks the bathroom door and jerks off in the shower to images of the white flash of wrists between straggles of dark fabric, chipped black nail polish and tiny front teeth nibbling nervously at an already red bottom lip, sore flesh and ragged skin.

It's not as easy to stay facing forward the next day. For some reason the dude seems louder - sniffing and shuffling in his seat, clattering things against the table, raspy breathing. Frank's always first to leave no matter how long he dawdles, and, like, he can't hang around outside, because the hallway is already full of people. He couldn't anyway, of course, but by Thursday he's toying with the idea that he wants to. The teacher fucks off about ten minutes in and Frank turns around immediately, drops his elbows back against the table and just lets himself look, considering. It had happened again last night, and Frank might not be the brightest spark but he knows himself, even if he doesn't quite know what, exactly, this is yet.

It's warm today, and the guy's dressed refreshingly sparse, wearing a band tee and baggy, paint-splattered jeans, arms bare. He's drawing something with a lot of sweeping lines, charcoal smudged all the way up his right forearm from sliding widely over the paper. Frank gets glimpses of something dark and whimsical; his messenger bag is covered in doodles of violence, zombies, gore. Frank thinks about horror movies, mind flashing back to the last Tim Burton he saw - and that's when he realizes he's going to talk to greasy art room dude.

There's a brief rush of panic before he resolves not to think about it too much. He sweeps his untouched, crumpled piece of paper and blunt, chewed up pencil into his bag and slides into the outside aisle. The guy doesn't look up, hand stilling only when Frank walks around behind him and dumps his bag heavily on the table, dropping down into the seat beside him.

" _Gerard Way_ ," Frank reads off the front of his folder. Well then. "Beetlejuice or Edward Scissorhands, go."

Gerard, apparently, doesn't say anything, and Frank shakes his head lightly. "Yeah, you're right, that was a lame conversation starter. I mean, it's obviously Beetlejuice, so that was kind of a pointless question."

"Why." Gerard Way's voice is thick and nasally, slow with caution. "Why are you talking to me?" It's not accusing, it's more like he actually wants to know. It probably doesn't happen much, Frank realizes.

He hesitates. He doesn't feel like trying to come up with a lie. "Because I want to fuck you."

There's a long pause. And then Gerard says, "Oh." He's still looking down, index finger tapping against the head of his pencil.

Frank sighs. He is so smooth. "Sorry. I'll leave you alone."

"No. I mean." Frank stops mid-rise from his chair as Gerard inclines his face toward Frank, not quite looking at him, but close. "It's okay."

Frank breathes out, slowly sinking back into the seat. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, um." Gerard mumbles something under his breath, slowly lowering his pencil to the table. "...Bathroom?"

Frank tries to pretend his insides aren't squirming. "Sure."

He sways on the spot and shuffles his feet awkwardly while Gerard packs away his things, stealing glances at the slope of his back shifting under his t-shirt as he ducks and rises. Frank barely knows what it's like to be attracted to someone yet, but he's pretty sure this isn't how it is for other people. It interests him more than it bothers him, which is interesting in itself, since Frank's spent nearly all his years of high school feeling mostly sedated.

He winds up leading the way, Gerard walking a few paces behind him, burning the back of Frank's neck. The hallways are mostly empty, everybody still at lunch and outside. Frank's glad of it, because it means there's nobody in the bathroom either. He stops in front of the row of cubicles and dithers for a moment, suddenly a lot less sure of himself. It almost makes him jump when Gerard just shuffles straight past him, into the very end cubicle farthest from the door, dropping his messenger bag with a heavy thud. Frank can see his battered old Converse under the divide, the dirty hems of his jeans brushing the floor, waiting.

Frank takes a breath and immediately wishes he hadn't, wrinkling his nose against the pungent smell of disinfectant. He shakes his head to himself, counting a couple of beats inside his head before following Gerard in and shutting the door behind himself.

And, wow. Up close greasy art dude is seriously pretty, which seems really bizarre for some reason, even more bizarre than this whole thing. He's taller than Frank, too, which is nothing unusual - but he's, like, _broader_ as well, bigger in general, maybe even kind of chubby - though Frank hadn't really thought about it like that before. In his mind, Gerard is this silent, hulking presence at the back of the art room, and it's strange to see him like this, standing in front of him like a human being, starting mostly at Frank's shoes. There's nowhere to hide now, no windows to avert his eyes to or things to keep his hands busy, other than--

It's Gerard that moves first, startling him, taking a slow step forward and hovering close - not quite pinning Frank, bare arms providing only slight pressure on his chest as he leans in. Greasy art dude kisses slow and messy, a little clumsy, mouth soft and wet and crooked. Frank responds mostly by instinct, heart thudding a bit, and hesitantly brings his hands down to the small of Gerard's back, where his t-shirt is riding up. The skin there is warm and soft, a little damp already, and Frank feels himself flush from the bottom of his stomach right up through his face, pushing into the kiss.

He's a little unnerved by how rapidly he climbs the notches from _mmm, nice_ to _yeah, really fucking turned on_ as they make out like that, hot and tense against the cubicle door. Frank's not entirely inexperienced, but he can't remember being this affected by any of his drunken party hook-ups. He lets out an overwhelmed breath against Gerard's mouth and wraps his fingers around a delicate white wrist, tugs Gerard's hand down to press against Frank's hard-on through his jeans, covering Gerard's bony knuckles with his own palm.

Gerard's mouth falters and Frank quickly whispers, "Been like this since I fuckin' saw you," because he isn't being pushy, and he isn't that kind of asshole - and, for whatever reason, he really doesn't want Gerard to think that. Frank's cheeks burn but he ignores them, tells himself he doesn't give a shit even if Gerard does walk out of here right now. But when he glances up Gerard's just looking down at their hands cupped together over Frank's crotch, breathing shallowly through his mouth - dark, greasy bangs hanging between their faces.

He's got the longest fucking eyelashes Frank's ever seen on a guy. 

"Oh," Gerard finally says again, soft and breathless, and something kicks in Frank's gut. He has to wrap his hands around Gerard's arms, tug forwards with a coaxing noise because he's unsure how coherent he'll be if he tries to speak. Thankfully Gerard's pretty pliant, letting himself be moved easily, which is good because Frank can barely contain his impatience; awkward limbs and breathing audibly in each other's space as Frank shuffles them around until, finally, Gerard's the one against the door and Frank can crowd him, brace one hand against the door and use the other to push his t-shirt further up.

Gerard makes a distressed, protesting sort of noise, but leaves his hands where they are, where they've slid up to rest lightly on Frank's hips, thumbs dusting the skin under the edge of Frank's tee. Frank doesn't get it, because Gerard's belly is pale and round and perfect, the soft flesh of his hips spilling slightly over the waistband of his jeans. For a while he gets stuck just _looking_ , their faces still hovering close but not meeting eyes yet, until Gerard squirms a little and Frank suddenly knows exactly what he wants.

"I wanna blow you." He says it out loud, because apparently that's how he rolls with people he likes.

Gerard makes this weird sound-- like a scoff, almost, but more breathless. "Uh," he says, fingers fidgeting against Frank's hips. "Okay?"

Frank isn't entirely sure what that means but when he strokes his fingers lightly over the faint, barely-there trail of hair on Gerard's lower belly Gerard twitches into it and Frank goes hot all over. He curls his fingers around the buckle of Gerard's belt, thumbing it open with a metallic click, and Gerard doesn't say anything else - just lets his breaths wash hot and thick over the side of Frank's ducked neck, ink-smeared arms and hands vibrating a little as Frank opens his jeans.

He's wearing boring, grey, utterly unremarkable boxer-briefs, wrinkled and faded, a small hole near the waistband. His dick's tenting the front and it looks just as stupid on him as it does on Frank when he catches sight of himself in his bedroom mirror after rolling out of bed in the morning, but the urge to laugh isn't there - just the urge to take the material away, see how he'd look standing up hard and dark over his stomach.

Frank doesn't realize he's holding his breath until he's eased Gerard's jeans down over the curve of his ass, until he hooks his fingers over the edge of the underwear and Gerard's feet shift minutely apart. Frank feels vaguely light-headed as he sinks to his knees, like a dream or a movie, like he's watching his hands tugging Gerard's briefs down from the outside.

He puts his hands on Gerard's hips, uses that leverage to shuffle forwards on his knees. It's not something he's ever done - sucked dick - and Frank knows he's staring. He blinks a few times to try and clear it, but Gerard's hard and already wet at the tip and fucking _big_ , jesus christ-- and Frank can't really think past it, this, how much he wants that in his mouth. This is new, this need, so far removed from the fumbling curiosity of before.

"Are you-- I mean." Gerard sounds vaguely terrified and a lot turned on, and it's stupidly reassuring. Frank leans in and presses his forehead to his stomach, closing his eyes and exhaling through his mouth. Gerard hiccups out a sound and goes quiet, hands fluttering over Frank's shoulders. His belly is fleshy and yielding under Frank's forehead, skin slick; it's fucking hot in here, or maybe it's just them. When Frank breathes in now all he can smell is that heady, unwashed boy smell - not entirely pleasant but it makes his cock twitch in his jeans anyway, throbbing where he's straining against his zipper.

He goes for it all at once, opening his mouth around the head and sinking down as far as he can. He gags, of course, but it's not-- it just spurs him on even more, the hot surge of panic, that brief, weightless moment where it was like he couldn't breathe, mouth entirely full. He pulls back, coughing a little, then takes a breath and goes straight back down. Gerard makes a couple of strangled noises above him, hands finally tightening up on Frank's shoulders as Frank half-chokes himself on his dick a few times - getting a feel for it, getting used to the strange, hot sensation of it in his mouth. He tastes kind of like he smells, sharp and sweaty, and it makes Frank's mouth water like fuck the more he goes at it, drool escaping out the corners of his mouth and dribbling messily down his chin.

Which-- yeah, drool is good, he knows that himself. Drool makes things slicker, easier, better.

He pulls back and spits in his hand, smearing it over his palm with his fingers. Gerard makes that noise again, and Frank looks up without thinking about it. Their eyes finally meet and it's awkward as hell, but then Frank sees the way Gerard's looking down at him, eyes huge and dark and shocked, and something shifts and suddenly he's grinning, slowly, holding Gerard's eyes as he wraps his slippery hand around his cock, working the spit along the length of him with a few slow, thorough strokes of his palm.

Gerard's eyes, somehow, get wider, mouth hanging open as he pants. It's a good look on him, Frank thinks wildly. He looks even better when Frank leans back in and licks at the head - his eyebrows drawing tight, fingers pulling Frank's shirt away from his shoulders. It's weird, Frank kind of figured (and maybe had it confirmed by all the porn he may have started watching a little more frequently this past week) that in a blowjob situation the person getting their dick sucked would be the one in control, but watching Gerard's face as Frank sinks back down, it doesn't feel that way _at all_. Frank actually feels strangely, ridiculously powerful down here on his knees; Gerard's belly exposed and vulnerable under Frank's hand, rising and falling, hitching when Frank's mouth meets his fist and he has to finally break eye contact.

It's hot. It's _so_ fucking hot. There's some vague notions of technique that he's read about floating around in his head-- lips over teeth, breathe through your nose, tongue and tight suction-- and he tries his best but he's not sure how faithful he's being to them when he actually manages to get himself together enough to get a rhythm going. Gerard's cock is hot and thick and stretching his mouth wide, lips already getting sore after only a little while of slick, steady strokes, _back-forth, back-forth_. It's mind-numbing in the best fucking way, feels dirty and overwhelming like all Frank is is mouth and dick, eyes shut so that's all he can register - the thick, salty taste of come, leaking over his tongue like Frank's leaking inside his underwear; that heady, can't-get-enough-of smell of sweat and boy musk.

Frank groans and kicks the pace up, suddenly urgent for reasons that have nothing to do with the imminent end of lunch bell. Gerard's making more awesome noises, quiet little gasps and whimpers, tight and muffled like he's biting his lip. Christ, Frank already wants to do this again somewhere else, somewhere where Gerard wouldn't have to hold himself back, so Frank could _hear_ him. His hands have slid around the back of Frank's neck, fingers tugging light and frantic at the short hair at the base of Frank's skull.

Frank wants, he _wants_ \-- but he's not stopping to tell Gerard to pull properly. Not this time, maybe later - maybe he'll skip the rest of the day if Frank asks him, let Frank take him home and fuck him on his clean sheets before his mom gets in from work. Sheets Frank had to change _because of Gerard_ and whoa, this is so weird. So fucking weird, so fucking _hot_.

"Um, Frank? Fuck, I can't--" Gerard's voice is breathy and quietly desperate, thighs shaking. Frank had already made up his mind about staying on; it's only the sudden jab of confusion that overrides that and makes him pull off, but then-- then Gerard's come is streaking his face, all hot, sticky pulses over Frank's mouth and jaw and Frank forgets about everything because he's coming in his fucking pants. 

He shoves his face into the soft give of Gerard's belly to muffle his moans, smearing jizz all over the heated skin. Gerard practically _whines_ , but he doesn't push Frank away, just cups his hands behind Frank's head and trembles with him as they ride it out, until they're both slumping and panting. 

_Jesus_. Frank can't remember ever coming that hard, and nobody even touched him. He doesn't try to move for a long moment, just breathes heavily against Gerard's now-sticky skin, listening to him breathe right back. Frank knows he fucking reeks-- he can smell where Gerard's all over his face, and it makes his dick twitch in a way that's both hot and slightly scary, because fucking hell, when did Frank get all kinky and shit?

Biting the bullet, Frank slumps back on his heels and looks up. Gerard's already looking back at him, eyes blown and mouth open, hair everywhere. He's boneless against the door, legs sprawled apart as far as his bunched-up jeans still caught around his thighs will allow, stomach shining with sweat and come and oh god, Frank could totally get it up again if he wanted, that image is going to stay with him for a _while_. Though he'd maybe lose the fear he can see in Gerard's face, but Frank understands-- he'd probably be a little freaked out too if some random dude announced they wanted to fuck him and then dragged him off to the school bathroom to make him come on their face.

"Um," Frank says, trying for something close to casual and reassuring and... failing. "Hi?"

"Oh god, I'm sorry," Gerard suddenly blurts out, and then he's off, words tumbling out of his mouth, "I didn't mean to, I tried to-- I tried to tell you, but you, you just-- oh god, I'm such a creep, what the fuck, did I _really_ just do that? Oh my god, I'm so sorry--"

He finally rambles to a stop, and Frank can tell it's costing him to meet Frank's eyes right now. Frank has never been more confused in his life; he feels the slowly drying come flake on his face as he frowns, and-- "Oh! You, er, said my name."

"Ugh," Gerard says, slapping his hands over his face, hiding his eyes, muffling his voice in his palms. "Okay, fine, I looked at the teacher's register to find out your name. Please don't punch me, I'll just-- I'll go and leave you alone. I'm sorry."

Frank blinks. "Dude. Really?" Gerard groans behind his hands and Frank goes on hastily, "No, no, I just. That's really, uh. I didn't think you even knew I was there."

Slowly, Gerard peeks at Frank through his fingers. "What. Really?" When Frank raises his eyebrows and nods, he lowers his hands, leaving a faint smear of grey over his nose. "Fuck. I, er, no. I mean, I knew."

There's something hovering between freak-hysteria and joy curling in Frank's stomach; the twitch of his mouth muscles once again draw his attention to the jizz on his face, and he rubs at it awkwardly with his forearm, which doesn't help at all. "Fuck," he says, half-giggling now, because what the hell, right? "This is so-- fuck."

"Here, um." Gerard shuffles a little, and then he's cupping the back of Frank's neck, tilting his head up into the clumsy swipe of Gerard's t-shirt over the lower half of his face. Frank goes very still, stares very hard at Gerard's forehead, and tries not to squirm. It still doesn't do much by way of making him decent, but at least his face isn't wet and sticky anymore when Gerard pulls away. "Oh, and maybe I should, um--"

"Yeah, bell's soon," Frank agrees tightly, but inside he's kind of disappointed to see Gerard tuck his soft dick back into his pants and zip himself up, putting himself back together. You'd never know anything even happened; the stain on Gerard's shirt isn't that obvious with all the shit on it already. Frank really needs to change his pants, but still. No one would ever have to know. Not even him, if he really wanted. 

He says, "I knew too. Well. Obviously."

There's a long pause where Frank can't quite meet Gerard's eyes. Fuck, why is he still on the floor? He gets up hastily, feeling suddenly silly, but Gerard reaches out and touches his arm. "You, er, wanna get lunch?"

"Canteen's closed now," Frank says stupidly, and then catches Gerard's nervous little smile. "Oh. Yeah." He laughs, lets himself calm down, drawls, "God, how fucking _meet-cute_ is _this_? I'm a freak, I swear."

"Mmm," Gerard widens his eyes and hums pointedly, fingers fidgeting, and yeah, okay, Frank doesn't know exactly what that means yet but he's gonna find out. He is, he wants to.

He can't wait.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Faceless Crush](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3238709) by [dapatty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dapatty/pseuds/dapatty)




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